Overige edities - Alles bekijken
Achilles Ajax Andronicus Apem arms bear better blood bring brother comes Coriolanus Cres dead dear death doth ears editions Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair father fear folio follow fool friends give gods gone hand hast hath head hear heart heaven Hector hold honour I'll Juliet keep lady leave live look lord Lucius Marcius master means mother nature never night noble Nurse old copies Paris peace play poor pray prince printed quarto Rome Romeo SCENE Senators sense Serv Servant Shakespeare sons speak speech stand stay sweet sword tears tell thee Ther there's thing thou thou art thought Timon Titus tribunes Troilus Troy true Ulyss voices
Pagina 439 - Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine, That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.
Pagina 80 - O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was: For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin...
Pagina 30 - The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre, Observe degree, priority and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office and custom, in all line of order...
Pagina 560 - Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd; Make the hoar leprosy ador'd; place thieves, And give them title, knee, and approbation, With senators on the bench; this is it That makes the wappen'd widow wed again; She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices To the April day again.
Pagina 81 - There is a mystery (with whom relation Durst never meddle) in the soul of state, Which hath an operation more divine, Than breath, or pen, can give expressure to.
Pagina 100 - Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks ; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
Pagina 413 - Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone : And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.